


Roads

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-War, ZERO System
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Checkered floors disturb Quatre Winner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Blame it on Portishead.

Checkered floors disturb Quatre Winner; a shoe stuck in the grid, a misstep in a dance.

There is champagne to mark the fifth year anniversary of victory. The first glass is a polite celebration shared by strangers; the second is a toast; the third is to forget for those that must.

Quatre despises these types of events; a courting ritual engineered for the surviving class of the war to wear fine gowns, fine shoes, and practice the art of waltzing.

They step over the lines in the floor nimbly at first, civilians floating in a gossamer world. " _Just like space, you know_ ," one of them says, who has gone on the much-talked about new tours. " _Remarkable, really, true outer space -- nothing like a shuttle ride._ "

People have been dancing over lines for as long as Quatre remember, letting the grid of the floor guide them; quadrants on a green-lit LED screen blink irregularly to inform you of who you just lulled to sleep.

Murder is such a terribly tasteless word to use in a speech, after all.

Quatre toasts himself at least four times before the real toast comes, and he acknowledges yet again that he and his father share more qualities in common than expected. But for once, he doesn't think too hard about it, because tonight, even Trowa is drinking. 

Five years is a milestone, particularly if it represents a quarter of one's life, rather than a third.

"Thank you for coming," he says, looking at Trowa.

Trowa has cut his hair since the last time he and Quatre saw each other; now it's ragged and homely. He knows it's Catherine fumbling with a pair of scissors somewhere in a trailer on a colony of which Quatre can never seem to quite keep track. 

This is solely because Trowa's letters never have a return address.

Trowa just shrugs slightly and nods. "I was free," he says, but hazards a look toward Quatre over the rim of his glass. 

Quatre just smiles at him.

The seams of Trowa's suit are uneven, hand-stitched and awkward, but passable. He stands in the shadows and watches, so no one says anything.

The travesty of polite society has never been more obvious than right now -- dances across a grid of lines and gossip without gun fire -- and somewhere, Quatre wonders about the differences between chivalry and butchery.

Trowa smiles back in his own subtle way and takes another sip of his champagne.

The last time Quatre visited the circus, it was on L5. He had watched Trowa and Catherine's act, eaten stale popcorn, sat alone on collapsible bleachers and listened to children squeal about knives.

And Trowa and Catherine had given him a guided tour; there are no checkered floors in the circus, only checkered costumes that move with each graceful twirl, the bending of bodies.

Quatre tries not to cringe before the girl trips on the floor and twists her ankle; there is her foot, caught in the square like a target he sees lit up in red before it even glows.

If the Zero System could play a waltz, it would be backwards.

_"I don't know how to dance."_

It had been an awkward revelation, shameful when it never needed to be. 

_"It's just a silly function, no need to dance at all."_

"Thank you for coming," Quatre says.

Trowa's face is painful suddenly, staring into his glass.

The past repeats in ways that no one predicts.

"You said that already," he says quietly.

Quatre's mind goes backwards and forwards, like dancing, like targets lit up on a screen. He often wonders if machines truly die.

"I'm sorry," Quatre says in a hushed voice, and toasts himself again.

_"Teach me how to waltz, Quatre."_

"They mean well," Quatre says finally, his glass empty. "They truly do."

"No they don't," Trowa replies, curling his fingers around the glass tightly. "Not in the ways that matter."

Fingers are a curious thing; the way they can maim and touch and clench and hurt.

"Five years," Quatre says instead of answering, raising his empty glass. "To five years of good intentions."

Quatre's never been in a real fist fight. 

The first time that Quatre Winner witnessed violence living in flesh was when Trowa took off his shirt; terror, blood, not living in quiet glowing marks on a grid, but on the skin, in the hands.

"Yes," Trowa says quietly, and drains his glass.

Hands, as well as fingers, are such a curious thing.

Another dancer trips, and Quatre flinches before it happens.

"You frightened our fortune teller quite substantially," Trowa says. 

It's meant to be a joke, Trowa's own version of humor.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, so close to Quatre's face suddenly. "I..."

Quatre wants to touch him; wants to stroke his face, wants to use his fingers and his hands for anything except marks.

"A toast to five years of peace," Quatre says, drawing away, and his voice is raw.

"My glass is empty," Trowa replies quietly, so only Quatre can hear him.

"As is mine," he replies. 

Quatre hates dancing.

The room is darkening and the party is almost over; glasses have clinked so many times, Quatre doesn't know whether the sounds are from champagne or from gun fire.

The grid is still there in sharp relief; he wants nothing more than to lay his face against Trowa's uneven seams.

He wants to say, repeat: _"Trowa, oh Trowa, oh god--"_

But he doesn't; he simply stands and tries not to look at anything except his glass, the way it bends his view of the world, the way its curved edges distort the lines of the floor.

Trowa simply looks at him, and Quatre wishes he knew whether or not the moment has already happened, whether Trowa has already stared at him in such a way, whether Trowa will stare at him in such a way, whether or not he's stepping backwards, or forwards, or simply now.

And finally, Trowa puts down his glass, takes Quatre's glass too.

_I put my hands up, surrendered. Pink flamingos, the world magnified, and then there was..._

"You," Trowa says, smoothing a crease out of Quatre's sleeve, "have toasted more than anyone here."

"Yes," Quatre says to him, and stands as straight as he can.

 _"Quatre,"_ Quatre hears, _"stop dancing."_

"Trowa," Quatre says, and he doesn't know whether it's a quarter of his life, or a fourth of his life, or death, "thank you."


End file.
